Perspective is a funny thing. That is to say, at the May 9 Avett Brothers concert at Terminal 5 in New York, I managed to get a good view of the band. In the bigger picture, it came at the expense of actually getting to hear much of the music.
Shortly before the show started a, dare I say, short fellow and his girlfriend squeezed in behind me. As the band walked on stage, I overheard the little dude talking about the inequality of not being as tall as the people in front of him, and justifying the view of my shoulders by saying, "At least we'll be able to hear them."
His was a fine statement, if not for the fact that no one in the immediate vicinity was able to hear the band above his voice. Now, I'm all for singing along with the band, and have at loud concerts been guilty of doing so in the past. But not at the expense of others. The Avett Brothers is not a particularly loud band.
Not having been terribly familiar with all of the Avett Brothers' work, I came into the concert with an open mind. From that perspective, the first half of the show was terrible, and it wasn't the band's fault. Eventually, either as a result of repeated complaints from those around him or the loss of his voice, the vertically-challenged guy behind me shut up. The concert got better.
Self awareness has not always been my forte. Over the many years I've been in bands or gone to concerts, I've been guilty of singing along with my favorite songs. I get it. And I understand the passion of feeling like the music was written and performed just for me. But I think this recent experience has also enlightened me to the effect that my own behavior might have on others. I hope I haven't ruined too many concerts for everyone else.
Two years ago today, I moved to New York City in pursuit of a dream.
Two years ago today, I arrived in Manhattan without a job, without a home, and without a clue where my future would lead me.
That is to say, two years ago today, I had no idea what I was doing.
Two years ago, I let go of everything and made a 1,700 mile leap of faith.
Two years later, I’m glad I did it.
At the confluence of conflict and opportunity, I left behind everything I knew. I moved to New York at the trough of one of the worst recessions this country has ever seen. I left my hometown, my family, my friends, and my cat. I resigned the best job I’d had up to that point. I packed two suitcases and left everything else behind.
Dec. 13, 2009 fell on a Sunday. I said goodbye to Denver at roughly 1:30 p.m., and arrived in my new hometown in the early evening, just as a mild December rainstorm came to an end. It was only the third time I had been to New York.
To say that I didn’t have a home is inaccurate. I moved into a friend’s apartment in the Upper East Side, taking over her room while she was working abroad on a several-month assignment in Europe. In return for shelter, I served as an over-glorified cat sitter. I had no income and a tight budget, and the threat of returning home in defeat hung over my head for the duration of my first few months in the city.
From that point my job became the search for a better (or really any kind of) job. Tied to the cross-country move was the idea that New York is not only the greatest city in the world, but also the capital city of my chosen profession as a journalist.
Denver was slowly becoming a journalistic ghost town. Its oldest daily newspaper had shut its doors, community papers and regional magazines based in the Denver area were dying. Opportunity was limited to the highly experienced or those willing to work for a pittance. And the outlook was getting worse.
To me, New York was the home of the world’s best journalists, and most of its greatest periodicals, publishers and news outlets. It was everything I aspired to, and it was the only city that had a chance to overcome the cancer that has been eating away at the media industry. It was where I wanted to be.
I learned a lot about the city early on. It’s built on dreams and grounded in the cool cynicism of people who know better. New York is big and arrogant and no place to be poor. It’s self-absorbed and self-referential. It is no place for self-pity. New York is the home of terrible weather and loud complaints. New York doesn’t care what you think. New York is the greatest city in the world.
There is nothing easy about life in New York. The city rewards hard work and resilience, but never celebrates it.
For my own part, I know living within the five boroughs has given way to opportunities I would never have had anywhere else. I love my hometown of Denver, but to have stayed there would have meant surrendering my goal of a career in journalism. And besides, what is a career in journalism without at least a short stop in its capital city?
The last two years haven’t been without their challenges. But in those two years, I’ve grown as a writer and developed my career as a reporter. I’ve hit the point where I can call New York my home without the threat that, at any moment, I might fail and be forced to move into my parents’ basement a couple thousand miles away. I’m happy here. I’m living the dream, so to speak. And it is only getting better with time.
I’ve known people who have given what I do for a living a shot. And I’ve known people who have given life in New York a shot. I’ve also known a lot of people who never really tried. Within each of those categories, I’ve known a lot of people who have given up. I never wanted to be one of those people.
I’m happy with my first two years in New York. And I am forever grateful to those who have supported me, who have guided me and who never gave up on me. Whatever happens in the future, wherever life takes me from here, I’ll always have this.
Resilience has a new name.
There's very little I could add to the remarkable story of Tim Tebow and the Denver Broncos that hasn't been said. It's controversial. It's unbelievable. It's a whole lot of fun.
The thing I appreciate most about the Broncos' inconceivable 7-1 run is this: In two years of living in New York City leading up to the Tebow takeover, I had been able to watch my hometown team on local TV exactly twice. In the last month, the Broncos have appeared on NYC airwaves every week for the past month. For the Broncos to accomplish that kind of attention in a city whose football interests rarely span farther than the two teams that play in New Jersey is remarkable.
It's a small thing, watching my hometown team play on local TV 1,700 miles away, but it means a lot to me. Thank you, Denver Broncos.
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